


Eye of Horus

by marzanna



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Claustrophobia, EMDR, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, julian bullies garak into doing right by himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marzanna/pseuds/marzanna
Summary: Everything about this seems spurious at best, Garak thinks, and has been thinking for the past few weeks. If the mind could be reprogrammed with nothing more than eye movements and mental visualizations, they surely would have been weaponized by now.It's what any proper Cardassian would do. Of course, Starfleet has never been known to take much from Cardassian schools of thought.





	Eye of Horus

**Author's Note:**

> this is my self-indulgent "garak goes to therapy" fic that i've been working on for awhile. a second chapter is on its way!

Bashir scrubs his face when he gets back from his shift, face wan under the cold-tinted lights above his mirror. He should see if he can't get Miles to do something about the color. Washes him right out. He takes a moment to collect himself. A twelve-hour shift is nothing to sneeze at, and it shows on the lines of his face. He shakes himself. What he needs, more than anything, is to take his mind off things.

Where he goes, an air of unfinished business goes with him, hurried with his mind in two (or three, or many more) places at once. As a Starfleet doctor, he'd long known what burdens he would have to shoulder on the frontier, as Sisyphus might with his eyes on the peak of the mountain before him. But the sheer volume of patients flowing through the infirmary on some days takes its toll on a man. He's got a tension in his shoulders that won't abate no matter how he rolls them. He's no machine. Machines don't hitch up a smile for the ones who will be alright, or for the ones who won't.

When he finally steps into the sonic shower, the hour's late. Not late enough that he can't hear the echoes of dabo players from the hub through the spokes of the station if he steps outside the soundproof confines of his quarters. Whichever of his companions he runs into first, he decides with shampoo threatening to trail into his eyes, is coming to dinner with him and hopefully listening to him complain a bit.

He isn't prepared to run into Garak in the Promenade, stumbling fresh out of a holosuite, but he takes the opportunity where he can find it.

"I'm not quite up to the occasion." Garak deliberately removes the hand that's landed on his shoulder.

"You must be starving, you're shaking. How long have you been in there?" Bashir asks him, not waiting for an answer before he states, "Come on now, I was looking to have dinner with somebody anyway. You've been skipping lunches with me." He tugs Garak along to an empty table inside Quark's with little resistance.

He orders with confidence. A warm meal should be enough to fortify him, maybe reduce some of that pallor lingering on his skin. One would be surprised at how well being well-fed contributed to feeling better after a harrowing experience, and whatever program Garak had experienced seemed to fit the bill. A bounty awaits them: a thick orange-red stew with large chunks of meat and Bajoran root vegetables floating at the top, striated Petrokian sausages plump to bursting and steaming hot, and assorted legumes of all colors, perfectly round such that they would keep rolling until they hit a vertical surface. Bashir discovers this when he accidentally knocks some off his plate.

Under the dark cast of a pylon's shadow, Bashir rotates his drink. The light from the hub on the table beneath shines through it, and the suspension of milky white particles in blue liquid takes on an oceanic glow. An impressive effect. Unfortunately, the lighting doesn't do much for those bags under Garak's eyes. If he hasn't been sleeping and he hasn't been eating, what _has_ he been doing with all this time he's not choosing to spend with Bashir? He mulls this over while he takes a sip. Fully engage the hedonic senses, he repeats in his mind, and focus on taking in the here and now. Whoever said that escapes him, but it's handy advice.

Garak takes small bites. In one of his drawn-out pauses between them, he asks, "Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about right now? Or am I just the unfortunate guest of one of your flights of fancy?"

"You say that like I corner you for a meal every night. Now eat. Doctor's orders."

Across from him, Garak makes eye contact, despite the offended upward cant of his head. And then he does as he's ordered. A good thing, since Bashir was starting to get uncomfortable tearing through his portion while Garak rolled his peas around.

"You look like you should be getting some rest instead of spending time in the Holodeck, Garak," Bashir comments, to a wrinkled nose and a raised brow ridge.

"You don't see me commenting on your appearance, Doctor."

Bashir looks down at himself and frowns.

"What's that supposed to mean? I rather like this," he says. He's got on a dark red cut, a short-sleeved silk get-up with dark gold diamonds embroidered on the torso. High-waisted slacks, too. "Don't tell me you're jealous that I didn't have you tailor this for me."

"Jealous? Me? Perish the thought." Garak sounds like he's riposting him as usual, but he trails off at the end to consider his glass of kanar, held up and rotated from side to side and half empty at that.

"Well, something must be the matter. You usually save your critiques for my Terran floral prints," he says, and then murmurs, "Honestly, I thought you'd be a fan of this style."

Garak knocks back the rest of his glass and snips at him, "And I thought you'd make a better conversational partner than a beautician."

There's a pause. Bashir eyes him levelly. "I didn't mean any harm by it."

"Intent is not everything, my dear." A second glass of kanar is poured from Garak's bottle. "Perhaps you should take your leave before I offend your senses further."

He rears his head back in surprise. There's an uncomfortable acidity to his words, Bashir thinks. "Alright, Garak, perhaps I should. I'd be happy to continue this conversation when you're in a better mood," he says with some finality. Picking up his Scythiian sea-drink and pushing in his chair prompts a scoff from Garak.

No one wants to be around a Cardassian when he's whipped himself into a bad mood, even if Bashir considers himself more patient than most. He hears an even louder irritable noise behind him when he turns away and heads for the exit. Not going to ruin his evening. Bashir spots O'Brien against the bar on his way, and slows. Likely a much more companionable... companion. His frown falls off in a flash, replaced with a genial smile.

"Miles!"

"Julian. Fancy meeting you here." O'Brien nurses a pale ale as he approaches, and raises it in greeting.

He shrugs and claps a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Where else would I be on a Friday night?"

"Good question. C'mon, sit down for a moment, you look exhausted," O'Brien says.

Does he? Bashir runs a hand down his face, stretching the skin. "Really? I hadn't noticed. Aren't we all a bit exhausted lately, anyway?"

"Too right."

"Let's play some darts, what do you say? I need to clear my head a bit," Bashir asks, polishing off his drink for good measure.

Lucky for him, O'Brien's always down for a bit of friendly competition, even if it means playing him at a disadvantage. Might be considered annoying to some, but Bashir enjoys the extra challenge more than he enjoys handing over every game without much of a fight. It's easy to get into the swing of things. O'Brien's got a good arm, scores a couple of bullseyes. The lights on the dartboard flicker and whirl in wild anticipation.

Bashir doesn't fare as well. His aim skews to the left, and no matter how well he tries to correct for it, his mind isn't in the right place. On his first loss, O'Brien's face lights up, but on his fourth one, O'Brien doesn't smile anymore.

"You alright?" he asks Bashir. His hands go to his hips. "I know you can play better than that, you don't stop bragging about it."

Startled, Bashir goes quiet. Then he says, after a moment, "I guess this argument with Garak's been bothering me more than I thought."

"What, that little feud you two were having earlier? Thought that was some kind of lover's spat."

Bashir repeats the last two words quietly, incredulous. "Not really, I'm afraid. There's probably something bothering him that he doesn't see fit to tell me about. He's not usually that offended by my clothes. If you ask me, getting some sleep would do him some good, but the idea just makes him irritable," he mutters.

He watches O'Brien take his turn to retrieve the darts. On his return, O'Brien's mouth purses from side to side, uncertain. "Did y'ask him about it?"

"Of course I did. I knew whatever he'd say might not be the whole of it, but I didn't think he would just lose his temper with me. Guess I'm starting to lose my sense of optimism," laughs Bashir. "I should have probed some more, but to be honest, it's been a long day. A dozen burn patients in the infirmary today, did you know? I did my best and we didn't lose any of the worst ones, but still, it takes a lot out of you. And I'm not sticking around to be his punching bag when he clearly wants to be left alone."

As he speaks, he overhears Garak calling out in the background, words indistinguishable but voice high. Some kind of outburst. Bashir sighs. The rest of the bar patrons begin to look his way, abuzz with concerned murmurs. Even the dabo players, absorbed as they were in their pursuits, tear their gazes away from the glint of latinum.

"Odo's better equipped than I am to handle this."

"Oh, really." Behind them Odo materializes, silent as a feather. One hand goes to Bashir's shoulder, the other to O'Brien's, and he drawls, "I was going to ask the two of you to handle this. After all, I'm sure you don't want your friend to end up in the brig. He's headed for a number of 'drunk and disorderly' charges."

Garak bellows over the growing waves of agitated conversation, "No need! I'll see myself out, thank you!"

To their surprise, he does as he says, though not without jostling a number of customers on his way out. Bashir lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His mind darts through all the possibilities in a flash that might make another envious - was Garak's implant site suffering complications? Was he engaging in spy-type activity behind the scenes, illicit activity that's keeping him up at night? Perhaps that last one's more his fantasy than Garak's. Regardless, he starts to feel that it's his responsibility to suss this out.

"I think that'll be all for me, Miles," Bashir tells him.

He's met with an understanding nod. "I'd better clear out of here myself. There's been power surges all over the station, and they're causing a massive work build-up. Systems failing everywhere. Case in point," O'Brien says, gesturing to Quark hurriedly fussing over a tray of drinks, mixing each by hand. He always seems to have something different in his hands, and Bashir can't keep track of where he's putting it all.

A thought clicks into place.

 

* * *

 

Quark aims an open-mouthed dirty look at Bashir and resumes gathering different multicolored bottles behind his bar, an easier task in the off hours. "I can't believe this. You're asking me to violate one of the sacrosanct rules of being a Holodeck proprietor - what happens in the holosuite, stays in the holosuite. Frankly, the idea offends me."

"That doesn't sound like a Rule of Acquisition. Surely you could bend it," Bashir tries.

"Nothing doing," says Quark, as two bottles and an elegant glass slam onto the counter. "Dax pays me good latinum for those holosuites, and I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Bashir turns his upper body to fully face him. "Dax? Why's Ezri paying for those holosuites?"

For a moment, Quark goes still. Then a sigh rolls over him in a wave, caught out. "Great, well, that cat's outta the bag. I'm still not telling you what Garak's doing in there! I haven't asked and I don't want to know. Not knowing what that man's up to keeps me safer, I think," he says.

He leans in further, rests his weight on his arms on the bar, watches Quark measure out a blue liquid into a cup and then a red one to top it off, the colors combining not to make purple but instead a vibrant orange. "Well, he can't stay in there forever, can he?"

Quark doesn't answer him. He fills a bowl from a glass container of dried beetles and sets it alongside the drink on a tray, which a Ferengi waiter promptly takes.

"Quark."

A groan. "He could stay in there 'til kingdom come, see if I care. He's got better funding than most of the schmucks that come through here. I got a little tip for ya: why don't you just ask him? He tells you just about everything."

"That didn't go well the last time I tried, as you well know," Bashir says, voice going dark. There's laughter at the edges that bleeds in further when he says, "And he doesn't tell me _everything_."

"Clearly. If he did, you wouldn't be here. Bothering me." He sets to work mixing another drink, this one in fragile stemware with a sparkling silver gradient. Red and syrupy, smells of pomegranate.

"Look, at least let me take a look at what it is he's doing in there. I'm just concerned about his well-being, as a friend. Please?" Bashir makes note of it for the next time he drops by. Some kind of sunrise, if he overheard correctly.

"No. For the last time, Doctor--"

Bashir interrupts him, "It's not like I mean any harm. What if I bought him a bottle of kanar, as a gift?"

"A gift."

He nods smartly.

"From me?"

"Who else? You know kanar better than anyone," he tells Quark, smiling when Quark's fingers twitch toward his selection. "Tell me about some of your finest vintages. Perhaps one that hasn't seen a lot of attention?"

Quark draws his hand back, and draws his mouth up in a slow smile. "You got it. Let me be right back." He ducks under the bar and ferrets out, among considerable clanking, two molasses-brown bottles of the stuff. It sticks to the side of the glass in a thin film where they aren't full. The dust he wipes off with a hasty rub against his frock. "A 75-year-old vintage. Left behind by some of the prior inhabitants of the station. You'd be surprised how hard it is to find a discerning customer for these. What do you say about ten bars for both?"

Bashir laughs like it's punched out of him. "You're joking."

"Take it or leave it," Quark says calmly, "but whatever you do, hurry it up and let me get back to work."

He decides to take it. A thumbprint seals the deal. Quark doesn't look his way as he approaches holodeck 3, a bottle in each hand.

When he opens the door, there's--

\--a bright flash of light, sharp

where it hits his eyes. Bashir shields them with a hand, and through his blind of fingers he starts to make out the vast edges of endless sand surrounding him, bouncing the light back as a giant field of tiny, tiny mirrors might. Slowly, he adjusts.

A tower of reddish-pink stone threaded with golden veins dominates his visual field. It has a shape vaguely like a brick of latinum, trapezoidal at the base with an uneven jut some tens of meters above the ground at the highest. Two dark spots bob in and out of sight at the peak. By anyone's guess, that's his man. And who else?

The walk up the narrow plateau doesn't take much time, and he spends much of it studying the slate-colored grasses that grow on its surfaces and outcroppings. They have a furry texture to their blades where Bashir brushes against them. Voices carry over the gentle whip of desert wind, curving around this peak. Bashir so hears them before he spots them - Garak and a woman, short-haired. Ezri Dax, upon closer inspection; both of them sitting cross-legged and facing out toward the setting sun. He stops to listen.

"...you said this didn't happen just once?"

"No. I was a very stubborn child, you see, and my father often needed to correct my behavior. Being locked in a wardrobe was a light sentence, really." Garak says this as if it is a simple fact of life. His hooded figure appears dark and featureless against the backdrop of the sun. "Does the method matter so much if he raised me into a fine and functional young man?"

"By 'correct your behavior', what do you mean, exactly?" Ezri probes, dodging his question.

There's a long pause. All Bashir hears is his own steady breath and the susurration of grass. Then Garak speaks. "There's always something else that needed to be done, some flaw to correct. That's the role of a father, don't you think? To mold his son - ah, perhaps his daughter as well, excuse me - into the shape of a fine citizen. Most of his other parenting techniques didn't have such a... lingering impact, however," he finishes.

Ezri says, "You don't know that. It seems like they have an impact if you're mentioning them now."

"Clever. I suppose you have a point. He was fond of all kinds of humiliating punishments, you know. You might compare his parenting style to that of a master rubbing his dog's face in its mess." He pauses, eyes closing against the wind as he weighs his words. "It was a family affair. He'd call all the aunts and uncles and elders down to tell them what we'd done wrong this time, and they'd stay and watch whatever happened next. Sometimes the main event was verbal discipline, and sometimes it was a good beating. My father's mother was always so eager about it. She never was fond of children. My siblings and I were made to carve our own switches from spiketree branches when we did something particularly stupid. Didn't want to be troubled to take off his belts."

"Your siblings?"

"Oh, yes. I had three of them. I wasn't the oldest, but nearly so. Little Elim was the favorite. Nobody could resist that smile," says Garak, fond.

"I see."

"Every child needs correcting. Some more than others. I liked to play tricks, you know."

"You?" Ezri places a hand to her chest. "Never."

"Indeed I did. And wouldn't you know it, grown men's business affairs have little fondness for boys playing tricks. You'll, ah, pardon me if I don't go into details," he demurs.

Bashir fidgets where he's hidden behind a soft slope. Garak had a rough life, he'd always known this, but overhearing the details shared with someone in confidence goes against his code of ethics both as a doctor and as a friend, and he feels suddenly as if he's trampled on something precious. He's seen enough, he thinks. He stands up fully and approaches their outcropping.

First to hear him is Garak, the crunching of small stones under his feet as jarring as the real thing. Gets his head to whip round. "Julian! Computer, freeze program," he calls out, and in an instant the whipping winds stop. Bashir can see a spray of sand coasting off the far dunes, suspended in midair grain by grain. "How did you get in here?"

As an answer he raises the two bottles of kanar, and says, "I wanted to talk to you. Quark let me in. I was worried about you, but I didn't realize what was going on. I'm sorry."

"Look at you!" Garak rises to his feet. "Reduced to sneaking around and eavesdropping. I must really be rubbing off on you!"

"You've got the wrong idea, Garak."

"Oh, have I! Tell me, what's the idea I should be having? Do you normally violate the privacy of your friends, or am I just special?"

Abruptly, a sharp whistle cuts through the air. They both turn to look at Ezri with her fingers to her mouth. "You guys don't have to fight each other," she says, eyes huge. "Dr. Bashir may have stepped on your toes, Garak, but it seems like he's here right now because he cares about you a lot. Can we work with that?"

Garak swallows, audible in the silent holodeck. Bashir keeps his eyes on him. Clearly he wasn't ready for Ezri to put it so baldly, but even if Bashir might need to be pushed a bit to admit it, it is the truth. Plain and simple. That's the way he prefers his truths, in honesty.

"Fine. The secret's already out. If you must know, Julian, Starfleet is having me meet with Ezri Dax so that I can find a fix for my claustrophobia. By poring over the details of my childhood in excruciating detail, as one does," Garak admits. It's the most truthful thing he's said in a week. He won't meet Bashir's gaze. Is he embarrassed? Why? It's practically healthy, which is more than he can say for some of Garak's other hobbies.

"I shouldn't have intruded, but I'm glad you finally told me. I've been wondering what's been eating you alive lately."

"Must you put it like that?" complains Garak.

Bashir gestures at him as if to say, just look at you, but doesn't say anything more. Ezri claps her hands together, a big smile putting dimples in her cheeks. "Great! I'm glad you two were able to work this out. Garak, I think we'll call this the end of our session for today, but you're making good progress," she says. They can't possibly be finished with their conversation, Bashir realizes, putting all of his genius brain cells to good use. That doesn't stop Ezri from smartly exiting the deck. This leaves behind just Garak and Bashir and frozen desert sands sparkling in all directions.

For a moment, Garak looks at the spot Ezri had just departed from. Then he looks back at Bashir, sighs, mutters, "Computer, resume program," and sits back down on the rock facing the same direction as earlier. There's a clearing next to him where Ezri Dax had once been. Bashir takes Garak's lack of opposition to mean that he should sit, too.

Despite the gust and gale surrounding them, up here he doesn't feel more than a light breeze. Must be some happy accident of the rock feature's shape. The two of them sit in silence for a time, watching dunes merge, split, take shape and pour into one another, over and over. He could wait here for a long time, letting the sun bake his skin. Funny - the idea had a Cardassian appeal.

He'll wait for Garak as long as it takes, he thinks.

After a few minutes, that time comes. Garak starts, "This isn't the sort of thing I wanted to publicize."

"Sure. But I'm your friend, Garak. I can't help but notice when you go around the station all pale and shaking and irritable," Bashir says, shivering exaggeratedly for effect. "I don't think any less of you for seeking help. In fact, I think that's a brave thing for you to do."

Garak rolls his eyes. "Please, Julian, don't patronize me."

"I'm not! I'm being perfectly genuine. I saw how badly your claustrophobia affected you back in that prison camp. It takes a brave person to face their fears and try to conquer them, I think."

When Garak speaks again, his voice is low. "You'd be the first to say that about Elim Garak," he says.

That gets a smile out of Bashir. "I'll say it as many times as I need to."

Another pause, not breaking eye contact even while Garak cocks his head in curious appraisal. Whatever conclusion he comes to must satisfy him, for he barks out a short laugh to himself and jerks his head up.

"Oh! While I'm at it, these are for you." Bashir presses the two bottles into Garak's hesitant hands, saying, "If you're wondering, Quark's price for betraying you was ten bars."

"Interesting!" He takes them with grace. One of them he pops open and takes a hearty swig from, no glass needed. Then, when he is finished, he extends the kanar to Bashir. Not typically his thing, but he did offer the stuff to Garak in the first place, so he downs a good measure of it himself. Bashir prefers his drinks to be less viscous, but the kanar brings with it a tartness and an astringent funk that only age can imbue.

Some time passes with no need for their speaking. There is the occasional pass of the bottle from one and hand mouth to the next. A familiar bond between men. This brotherly sensation lasts right up until the moment where Bashir opens his big fat mouth.

"You know, there's this kind of therapy that I've heard works wonders for trauma patients."

"Julian, please, I was almost having a good time with you."

He barrels right along, "It's called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. EMDR for short. Nog was telling me about his experiences with it some time back, says it helped knock his flashbacks right out of the park. There's no data for Cardassian patients, but there's nothing to suggest it wouldn't work for you."

"Eye movement? That's all?" Garak asks.  
  
"Yes. From what I understand, it's meant to rewire the associations you make for traumatic memories, or at least that's the gist of it. I'm no expert, but Ezri might be able to use it with you," he says. "It can't hurt."  
  
Garak makes a noise of disbelief. "A bold statement," he says under his breath. But he doesn't protest further, and the way he furrows his brow and looks out into the distance gives Bashir the idea that he's considering it. It brings a small smile to Bashir's face. "We'll have to see."  
  
His smile grows. Now might be his best opportunity to lift Garak out of that bad mood. "You know, we're already here. Why not take your mind off of things and go through one of my holosuite programs? I've been working on some of my spy fiction, and I'm eager to give it a go," Bashir offers, getting to his feet and extending a hand. To his mild surprise, Garak takes it.  
  
"Do you know, that might be the first reasonable thing you've suggested," says Garak. "Tell me more. I could be interested."  
  
"Well, I've been working on a story line involving a kidnapping..."

 

* * *

 

He is small. He looks up at the stern and stone-carved faces of his elders. He knows them well, knows his father's face as if it were clear as day. How could he forget. Tain reaches down with big hands, large enough to scoop him up under the shoulders and raise him up as if he is nothing. When he reaches the peak, Tain's mouth parts, first in a smile but one that keeps opening, revealing rows of sharp teeth that stretch on and on into a growing black gullet. Then the shapes of his face become blotted, blurred out and shifting and Garak's heart pounds loud in his chest.

The same thing happens when he looks in the mirror, sometimes - with pupils blown out, shadows cast over his eyes, he doesn't recognize himself, his eyes slide out of focus and his nose and mouth become dark smears of somebody else peering back at him. In Tain he sees his own face.

No time to wonder. Tain swallows him whole in one swift movement.

Surrounding him suddenly is nothing but bulbous reddish-black. He gasps and finds himself not breathing air but flesh, or something like it, viscous and semi-solid. Don't vomit, he thinks furiously, hoping that it will drive the feeling down. Uselessly, he remembers a quick cure for nausea, an isopropyl swab waved under the nose. The smell of it overwhelms him just as he thinks of it.

He opens his mouth to cry out but cannot. The infirmary stink clings to the roof of his mouth and lingers on his tongue. It revolts him; each breath comes out tighter and tighter as if he can't let himself fully do it or he will choke. He's going to choke in here, head spinning, blood pounding through his temples until it feels as if they will surely burst--

Garak rockets forward out of sleep with a shout, panting like he's run a marathon and sweating just as much. It's dark, of course it's dark. In between labored breaths he gasps out, "Computer, lights!" and in a blessed instant he can see again.

In the same way he calls out for the time. 0400 hours. He lies his head back down on the mattress and closes his eyes. A few moments later, he opens them again, unsatisfied. Once again sleep dances just out of his grasp. The nightmares are getting more frequent, and if he keeps going like this there won't be enough raktajino left on the station to support him. Speaking of which, Garak grumbles at the replicator for one and gets a hot liquid stream dripping from the top of the dispenser instead of a drink in a cup. They must expect him to stick his head in there and drink. He's halfway tempted.

No matter. The Promenade operates at all hours of the Bajoran day, and one stall on this station must have something warm to drink.

Once he clothes himself properly, he finds that even at these small hours the Klingon restaurant has what he needs. He feels a bit silly sitting down in a restaurant just to order a raktajino, but the waiter doesn't pay him much mind. At this hour, there isn't much mind for him to pay, anyway. Food probably won't sit well yet. At least not until his nerves die down. Distantly, Garak hears a small voice in his head reminding him that caffeine is a stimulant and therefore a bad idea, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Dr. Bashir's.

He decides to pay it no mind. The warmth is what he really wants it for. To occupy himself, he keeps up with the news. It brings him no pleasure but passes time satisfactorily.

Garak keeps one eye on the entrance to Quark's. The Ferengi's bound to leave sooner or later, and he would prefer to make his request where he's sure Morn or some other late night straggler won't overhear.

It takes some waiting.

When the moment comes and Quark steps out of the bar, Garak leaves his half-empty mug behind to approach him. "Quark! I, ah, have a certain request to make of you," he says, grabbing Quark by the elbow (but not too hard, the man is delicate). "The holosuites--"

"Are not available," Quark cuts him off. He jerks his arm back. "It's these damn power surges, they overloaded the whole circuit and now I don't even have the lights on. Can you believe Starfleet has me using candles right now? Honest-to-goodness animal fat, stinking up my bar! This hasn't been my week."

"Nor mine," mutters Garak.

"Hey, at least half your establishment isn't shut down right now. You're welcome to wait in the bar for things to be fixed," says Quark, and then he leans in and says, "but it might be a long wait. Make yourself comfortable."

Unlike some of Quark's other customers, he has no intention of getting drunk first thing in the morning. The bar is a good spot for people-watching, though, so he takes Quark up on the offer. There's only a handful of people to watch. One of them would be Morn, a few seats down, but he doesn't get up to much. Other than that, mostly Bajoran. Mostly individual. The exception is a cluster of three, tucked away in the shadows of the second floor. Inconspicuous and out of the way. Even in the darkness his eyes can make out hands gesturing, heads bobbing. Whatever they're talking about, it must be fascinating.

After a time, Quark returns to his usual spot behind the bar. "So, what can I get you gentlemen?"

"Ah, nothing for me, thanks," Garak says with a flick of the wrist.

Across from him, Morn gestures in a circular motion, which gets Quark to grunt in understanding. A companionship like theirs is rare, he thinks. Without words they can say all that needs to be said. It's pure - a long-time customer and his devoted bar patron. Or perhaps the devotion runs the other way around. Either way, it's a bond, one which Garak laments that he will never have because he simply likes to talk too much. He has to admit it's gotten him into trouble a time or two.

What he does have, he doesn't like to think about much. The general distrust of everyone on this godforsaken station? Well, maybe "everyone" was pushing it, now that Sisko had proven foolish enough to trust him with clandestine Starfleet information, and even allowed him to set foot on the bridge of Deep Space Nine's flagship vessel just as an officer might. Terrible idea. He wouldn't trust himself if he were in those shoes. Still, the curious (or suspicious) looks from some never fully went away. Every day there's an influx of new visitors, new ears that haven't heard there's a Cardassian hiding in his hole here and waiting for the opportunity to strike. It's what snakes do best.

Garak's grown accustomed to these things. He is nothing if not resilient.

If nothing else, at least there is Julian. The man's charmed him into some kind of long term, mutually beneficial relationship. A more sentimental sort might call them friends, or otherwise. Bashir's brain is a delightful piece of machinery so unlike the organic bits of meat floating around in Starfleet and its collective heads. No. Most of them are predictable. One could set up a betting ring on the consistency of Odo and Kira. Unlike them, Garak could see himself probing for Bashir's thoughts on almost any topic. He is so often wrong, especially when it comes to the fine arts, but he's a refreshing man and his opinions just as much.

But friendships are tenuous. Weak links. Compromising.

He asks Quark, getting him to jerk in surprise, "Tell me. Why is it that you stay here, Quark? Why haven't you plied your trade for bigger, better things?"

"You think I haven't been trying?" Quark mutters. "It's not like opportunities grow on trees. If it hadn't have been for Starfleet, I wouldn't even have this bar, so I take what I can get."

"Ah. The power of friendship, of course."

Quark scowls and grabs a rag, wiping off a glass with it. "Yeah, that's real cute, Garak. You ask me, friendship's worth it's weight in latinum. Literally. And by my estimation, Morn here's worth a lot more to me than a tailor too broke to pay his own Holosuite fees. So _you_ better not ask me for shit," he snaps. He snaps his rag like a whip for good measure.

Garak opens his mouth to rebut him, but before he can speak, a clamor breaks out on the second floor, a chair knocked over, a scream, a phaser firing--

A crowd emerges and swells, surrounding him - swarming - pushing him up against the bar in their fear and raucous curiosity--

His breath comes short. The group he'd noticed before has bounced apart, split off. One of them has escaped from his sight. Another holsters his phaser and runs, pursued by brown-clad security officers storming up the spiral stairs. It's too dark in the candle-lit hubbub to make out their faces.

A familiar sensation worms down Garak's throat, ugly and viscous like tar. He's got to make his way out of the crowd. Thankfully, he's skilled in weaving through his surroundings without being noticed, and it's easy enough to find a Brownian path through the mix.

He will bide his time, and in the meantime, the mouth of his empty shop beckons. It may swallow him alive before Quark gets him in a holosuite, but it is a risk he will take for the sake of his health and his work. It waits for no man. And after that debacle, it may be safer to walk into the lion's jaws than into the bar. Until they get those cursed power failures sorted out, that is.

 

* * *

 

Come the next morning, his Tarkalean tea comes out cold, but at least it is in a cup instead of on the floor.

 


End file.
